


Springerle

by apoptoses



Series: Holiday Spirit [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, M/M, bittersweet fluff, season 3 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:10:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8721925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apoptoses/pseuds/apoptoses
Summary: Nestled between a Forever 21 and a Bath and Body Works, the delicately iced cookies stood out like a beacon. Hannibal would have approved of them, perhaps even whipped up a batch of his own in attempt to copy the recipe from taste alone.
Will wondered exactly which parts of the human body could be incorporated into a cookie. Perhaps fat could be transmuted into lard, he thought, as he stepped inside and peered through the glass display case.





	

“Gosh, I thought since it was a weekday afternoon it wouldn’t be so crowded,” Molly said.

A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Will’s neck, making his sweater itch against his skin. It was hot in the store. Too many bodies, too many bright lights, too much crap to hold. The line for the register was ten people deep and growing. Will could have sworn they hadn’t moved any closer to the front for the past twenty minutes.

If only Hannibal could see him now, sweating to death while surrounded by a thousand other middle-class suburban moms at an outdoor shopping mall. It was a far cry from Florence. An even further one from Hannibal’s lovely foyer; bedecked with antlers dripping with ornaments.

Will absently wondered what Molly would think of a tree made from antlers; threatening as it was festive. She’d probably find a way to neuter it into a rustic log cabin chic piece.

“Yeah, well, welcome to Christmas shopping. It’ll only get worse from here on out,” he said and shifted his coat to his other arm.

“You really think Giselle will like the pink sweater?”

“I think if Giselle doesn’t like the pink then Giselle has her own car and can suffer the exchange lines by herself, on her own time.”

Molly rolled her eyes affectionately. “Okay, Mr. Grinch. You know, I was talking to Giselle the other day and she said when she went to Peru she had this dish called lomo saltado that sounded incredible. I was thinking about making it for dinner to-”

“No,” Will snapped. “No. Do not make that.”

Molly put up her hands in surrender. “Okay. Whatever you say. I won’t make it.”

“I’m sorry it’s just-” Will said, stumbling over his words in his haste to apologize. “It’s hot and I think I’ve heard Mariah Carey enough times it qualifies as Guantanamo-approved torture. I- let me take a walk, okay?”

Molly, patron saint she was, took the pile of clothes Will was holding and clutched it to her chest. “Sure, whatever you need. I’ll call you when I get done and we’ll go home. Spaghetti for dinner?” 

“Spaghetti is fine.”

The wind was sharp enough to cut through Will’s wool sweater when he stepped out. He leaned against the glass door and inhaled deeply. 

It was crippling, sometimes, how he ached for the glint of Hannibal’s knife. The feeling of a stainless steel countertop beneath his fingers and the warm scent of Hannibal’s kitchen always lurked at the back of his mind. 

The juxtaposition of his memories and the cookie cutter banality of the shopping center was enough to make Will’s chest constrict.

Which was why the bakery caught his eye. Nestled between a Forever 21 and a Bath and Body Works, the delicately iced cookies stood out like a beacon. Hannibal would have approved of them, perhaps even whipped up a batch of his own in attempt to copy the recipe from taste alone.

Will wondered exactly which parts of the human body could be incorporated into a cookie. Perhaps fat could be transmuted into lard, he thought, as he stepped inside and peered through the glass display case. 

The clerk smiled. “Can I help you?”

“How much for a dozen of the springerle cookies? The ones with the Christmas scenes on them?” he asked.

It was a bad idea. He should go to the car, wait for Molly. He shouldn’t be buying cookies for his serial killer-

Friend? Ex? What was Hannibal, really?

“A dozen is $35.99,” the clerk replied. “I can gift wrap them if you like. We have all sorts of tins you can choose from.”

The woman pulled out a pair of tins. One was the same crimson of a sweater he’d seen Hannibal wear once. Hannibal would appreciate the way it contrasted with the buttery gold tones of the cookie.

A terrible, horrible idea. Alana would probably throw them out on principle alone.

Will pulled out his wallet.

“I’ll take them. And the red tin.”

\---

Deep within the recesses of his mind, Hannibal strolled the Christmas Markets of Berlin and pondered which stall Will would visit first were he there. One with food, perhaps. They could share bratwurst and beer, boots crunching in the snow as they perused the wares. Will would would be striking in the soft glow of the Christmas lights.

They-

“Hannibal.”

Hannibal blinked. Once. Twice. The ivory and gold walls of his cell swam back into focus.

Alana stood on the other side of the glass with a package in hand. He got to his feet and approached the dividing wall, head cocked curiously. He often got letters. Packages were a rarity, usually confiscated and disposed of before they reached his cell. Alana always told him of the contents- several knives, the occasional lock of hair, an entire diary written in human blood. 

The last one had piqued Hannibal’s interest, but unfortunately it had been taken as evidence for an official investigation. He’d never learned what had been written. The others Hannibal had no desire to receive. 

“I thought about not giving you these. There’s no return address,” Alana said. “But we all know who they’re from.”

“How very generous of you,” Hannibal remarked.

“Consider it my one act of getting into the holiday spirit. I’m going to place them in the drawer now.”

Without further instruction, Hannibal moved to the center of the room; hands hanging politely at his sides while Alana approached the steel drawer. He waited until she had put the package into the drawer, slid it to his side, and left the room entirely before he moved.

The package was a simple, white cardboard box, easily purchased from any post office. Hannibal smelled pine and dogs and home cooking on it. His heart skipped a beat.

Within he found a finely wrought tin tied with ribbon. Perhaps if he was particularly careful with his words he would be allowed to keep it, he thought, despite the potential danger of him having tin. 

He untied the ribbon slowly, watching the light catch the golden fibers. The ribbon would most certainly become a bookmark. It was short enough to keep.

The tin opened with a quiet click and he set the lid aside while he admired its contents. The springerle cookies were lovely; little works of art with their carefully painted, embossed Christmas scenes. Hannibal took a bite of one as he pulled a notecard off the inside of the tin.

Merry Christmas, it said. There was no signature. None was needed.

He stepped back into his memory palace.

The bratwurst Hannibal had imagined melted away, replaced by golden brown cookies stamped with nativity scenes. Snow swirled around them as they stood in the street, heedless of the people around them. 

There, in the middle of the Berlin Christmas market, Hannibal turned and kissed sugary sweet crumbs from Will’s lips.


End file.
